


no grave can hold my body down

by mindelan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Permanent Injury, Slow Burn, Tagging as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindelan/pseuds/mindelan
Summary: Being an outlaw has consequences – and Lilith Dumont is currently paying for crimes of her past. In an attempt to salvage her life, she changes her identity, opens a store, and (mostly) stays on the right side of the law. However, that all threatens to fall apart when fate keeps bringing two handsome cowboys to her doorstep time and time again.Now thrust back into the world of the van der Linde gang, Lilith is only sure of one thing: she will never be the victim ever again.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith/Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith/Reader, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Charles Smith/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 35





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you saw this post yesterday pretend you didn't bc i accidentally published it a few hours ago when i thought i had drafted it😭😭
> 
> little nervous to post this bc it's /so/ self-indulgent and i always get worried introducing a new oc. i hope you all will come to love lilith's chaotic energy as much as i do<3
> 
> for context, arthur is 35 and lilith and charles are a few years younger than him (late twenties early thirties)
> 
> title from "work song" by hozier

_Summer, 1897_

Arthur’s a damn fool.

The bank in a small town in New Austin is swarming with law when he pulls up on his horse, swearing under his breath as he scans the scene. He doesn’t need Hosea or Dutch to tell him how stupid he’d been – he knows. His fingers twitch nervously, a pit sinking in the bottom of his stomach. Whether or not this has to do with him, the middle of a police search is the last place any outlaw ever wants to be. 

He tugs down his hat to hide his face, turning Boadicea in the other direction. He needs to get out of here and lie low for a little bit before he heads back to camp, to take the long way around so he doesn’t risk any suspicious folk tailing him back to the others. 

Though he tries to keep a cool and calm outer façade, his palms are slick with sweat and his mind reels, trying to think through every possible explanation. The only people who know he’d planned to – ah, _investigate_ the bank in the area are Hosea and Dutch; they’d tried to caution him out of it, saying it’s too big of a job for one person, but cocky and eager to prove himself, he hadn’t listened. For the past couple days, he’s staked out the area and thought to put his plan in motion today but it’s clear that something has tipped off the law. 

_Stupid_. Arthur curses again under his breath, keeping Boadicea at a slow trot as he heads away from the center of town. He’s always been a fool but usually a cautious one; the winning streak the gang’s been on lately has left him feeling almost invincible, a high that’ll fade quickly if he’s caught and left to rot in jail. 

To try and establish some sense of normalcy as well as poke around for some information, he dismounts near the butcher, pulling out a few small pelts he had in his satchel. Hosea could do this in his sleep, so he channels the older man the best he can, exuding confidence when he has next to none. 

“Hey, mister,” Arthur says, trying to keep his voice even. The smile on his face looks more like a grimace. “You hear anything about what’s going on?”

The other man takes the furs from him, humming softly as he examines the quality. “Not much, I’m afraid. Heard that some kind of character was loitering around the back the last couple days but I ain’t seen anything.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I think – I think it was the man who owns the general store or maybe his brother – one of them, anyway – that said they saw him. Tall fella, broad shoulders kinda guy. Brown hair, though he wore his hat low to cover his face.” The butcher pauses, then adds with more scrutiny, “I reckon you look kinda like him, actually. Not that you are him, of course. Don’t think an outlaw would be stoppin’ by my humble establishment.”

“Well, no, mister, I sure ain’t him,” Arthur responds with a forced chuckle, taking the money with a white-knuckled grip and shoving it in his bag without another word. “Thank you for the warning. You take care, now.” 

As he mounts back up on Boadicea, the man gives him a nod, “Keep your eyes open, sir. Don’t wanna be caught unaware when there’s an outlaw hangin’ around.” 

_Christ._

He ain’t even sure the butcher had been that oblivious – for all he knows, the man is running to the police now to report him. If Hosea and Dutch had been with him – well, they wouldn’t have let him talk to anyone, that’s for sure – but if they had been present for that, he would have been smacked upside the head. Why does he ever try to do anything on his own? Why does he even bother?

Desperately, he searches for somewhere to hide out far enough from both town and camp. About a mile away is a small building, looking more like a shack than a homestead, and likely his best bet. Once he’s on the outskirts of town, he nudges Boadicea into a canter. He only needs to lie low for a few hours until nightfall and if he’s lucky, the place will be abandoned. 

(He’s not lucky.)

Despite the dark curtains covering most of the windows to keep out the heat, there’s an open sign in the front window and a crack of light spilling from underneath the door. He does a lap around the store, noting the makeshift structure in the back housing a single horse. A nice one, too, by the looks of it; he whistles under his breath upon closer inspection, the red coat of the mare shining like a garnet in the midday sun. The horse is free of a saddle or halter but chooses to stay close to the house despite its freedom. Clearly belonging to someone then, most likely the owner. And as there aren’t any other horses around, he reckons that he’s the only other one here. 

Satisfied with his inspection, he ties up Boadicea at the front and pats her gently on the neck. “I’ll come check on you soon, okay?” he murmurs softly when she wickers at him, nose bumping against his arm. “There’s a girl, all right.” 

With that, he enters the building. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, the only source being a few haphazardly placed candles on the walls and on top of shelves that barely illuminate anything. For a shop, it’s uncharacteristically bare; there’s a few shelves with minimal merchandise. And what is there is. . .well, it’s unusual, to say the least. There’s a bunch of animal bones scattered on a table towards the back, a shelf stocked with a variety of dried herbs, and a dish with rings of all kinds, even what he believes to be wedding rings. 

While he strolls around, he doesn’t miss the woman watching him like a hawk, standing behind the counter at the front of the shop. Her eyes are clearly tracking his every movement, and while he doesn’t know what she’s looking for, he makes sure to keep his hands out of his pockets and his stance as unthreatening as possible. There’s a deck of cards in front of him – though they aren’t like anything he’s ever seen – so he picks them up and shuffles through them to feign interest. . .only to nearly drop them in surprise when he gets to a drawing of a naked woman with the words “The Star” underneath her.

_What in the hell?_

Eventually, the silence starts to get the better of him. To the right of the counter, there’s a flight of stairs leading up. If he had to wager, that’s either her bedroom or a space for storage. He doesn’t have much money on him but he’d be willing to pay to lay low there for a few hours. And if she doesn’t agree to that, there are other manners in which to coerce her, even if he hates the thought of threatening an innocent woman. Either way, Arthur knows that if he loiters any longer without making a move, she’ll likely start getting suspicious of his motives. 

“This is, uh,” Arthur rubs the back of his neck nervously, glancing up at the woman, “quite the collection you got here, miss. Not what you’d usually find in a general store.” 

“If you want the general store, then you’re on the wrong side of town,” the woman replies flatly. It’s too dim to see her expression properly, but Arthur can practically feel her annoyance radiating in the air around them.

He isn’t any good at the charming, suave gentleman act and he knows it; Arthur only hopes that he can fake it long enough to get what he needs. “Ain’t looking for a general store,” he replies, voice dropping an octave. “I reckon I’m in just the right place.” 

She doesn’t look impressed, just raises a brow in response to his fishing. “Oh?” 

Now that he can see her better, he pushes on. Just peeking out from behind her hair, he can see the edge of an angry looking scar from her ear to jaw, red and just barely healed. Her eyes are dark and hardened in a way that only someone who’s accustomed to violence tends to look. These observations, combined with her attitude and the contents of the store, leads Arthur to think that maybe he’s managed to find himself with one of the only people in town that might be willing to harbor an outlaw for a few hours.

Besides the one in Thieves Landing, Dutch and Hosea haven’t mentioned anything about there being a fence around these parts. There’s no harm in asking to sell a couple of pieces he’s picked up over the past week or so, both legally and illegally. 

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a worn gold pocket watch, then places it on the counter. “Picked this up a few days ago. I was thinkin’ maybe you could pawn it for me.”

“You were thinking that I could.” She says it so flatly that he can’t help but wince at her tone.

“I was hopin’,” he corrects sheepishly. “Saw your collection of rings back there and thought maybe you’d take it.”

She picks up the watch and glances at it, but he still sees a note of suspicion in her eyes. From the cash register, she pulls out a worn and wrinkled bill and hands it over. “I could give you ten dollars for it.”

“Yeah, I reckon there is,” he replies as he leans forwards, resting his weight against the counter and dropping his voice to a murmur. “You see all the law scattered ‘round town today?”

She nods tersely. 

“Me an’ you – I have a hunch that we’re similar to each other. Same sort of lifestyle. And if the law catches word that someone like me was sniffin’ around the bank today, well – ”

Before he can even register her movement, there’s a gun in his face, cocked and ready to fire. He blanches, arms flying up to protect himself, his mind going completely blank staring down the barrel of a pistol. He should have expected something like this. “Woah there, miss. No need – ”

 _“Get. Out.”_ The words are hissed between clenched teeth, dangerously quiet. The woman draws herself up to her full height, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to match Arthur’s stature. “Get the hell out of my store.” 

Arthur takes a step back. Despite the clear familiarity in which she holds the weapon and the way her hands don’t shake as she stares him down, she can’t quite hide the fear in her eyes or the nervous clenching of her jaw. And while he may be an idiot, he has a suspicion of what set her off. 

Still hopeful that he can somehow salvage this situation, he starts slowly, “Don’t mean you no harm, miss. The law ain’t looking for me specifically,” at least, he doesn’t _think_ so, “and I just need a place to stay ‘til nightfall. I thought you was a fence?” 

“I’m a _collector,_ ” she snaps back. “Not a fence. Everything I do and sell here is perfectly legal.” 

“I’m not askin’ you to do anythin’ illegal,” he soothes. “I’ll pay ya for your time, even.” 

“If the law finds you hiding here, they’ll think I had something to do with it and take me, too,” she retorts, a hint of desperation entering her voice. “I don’t care about your money. I want you out of here, _now._ ” 

He knows she won’t shoot him, not when the loud sound would invite half a dozen officers over to investigate. And though he knows he could threaten her into giving him what he wants, the thought of that has his stomach rolling; ain’t no honor in hurting a woman, especially one that’s clearly afraid.

Perhaps against his better judgement, Arthur nods, already regretting coming in here in the first place. “All right, all right. I’m goin’. You stay safe now, miss.” 

He tips his hat at her but otherwise keeps his arms raised. Not eager to put his back to a loaded gun, he doesn’t turn around as he leaves the store, maintaining eye contact all the while. Once he’s outside, he curses quietly underneath his breath and lifts his hat to run his fingers through his hair. 

“Well, girl,” he says to Boadicea, petting her nose briefly before he hauls himself up into the saddle. “Looks like it’s just me an’ you now.” 

With that, Arthur rides further out in the desert.

* * *

_Spring of 1899_

“Arthur! Need you to run an errand for me!” 

Arthur scowls, looking up from where he’d been writing in his journal to see Dutch standing at the entryway of his tent. He looks rather expectant, as if purposely forgetting that Arthur had just gotten back from reconnaissance in Blackwater. With a sigh, he pushes himself off his cot and follows the older man out into camp. “Whatchu need, Dutch?”

“Now, son, I know you just got back but this is surely an easy task. There’s a fence up in Strawberry,” he says, beckoning a waiting Charles into the conversation. “A trustworthy one. Arthur, you and Mr. Smith here will take a wagon up to her store and get some supplies.” 

Arthur rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure about this, Dutch? Listen, I still got a bad feelin’ about this ferry job. I don’t think we should be gettin’ even more people involved.” 

And if it’s so easy, he doesn’t say, then why can’t someone _else_ do it?

“Oh, my boy, you worry too much!” Dutch responds with a laugh. “I told you, she’s loyal – she won’t sell us out.”

Arthur shares a look with Charles – that hadn’t been what he meant and they both know it – but nods. Despite his exhaustion, there's no point in denying Dutch; the quicker he agrees, the quicker they can get going and come back. “All right. What are we pickin’ up?”

“Hosea! You got that list?”

He cranes his head back to see where Hosea’s sitting, who’s finishing his writing before standing and joining the group. Surreptitiously, Arthur checks him over, looking for any visible signs of illness. He’d hoped Hosea’s cough would ease as winter turns to spring, but it’s only abated slightly in the weeks they’ve spent in West Elizabeth.

“I’ve written up a list here,” the older man says, handing a sheet of paper to Arthur. He glances at it briefly before folding it up and placing it in his pocket. “The woman’s name is Lilith Dumont. Tell her that Dutch and I sent you and she’ll get you what she has without too much fuss. And here,” he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a tin of salve, “give her this and don’t take any money for it.”

Arthur furrows his brow as he takes it. He doesn’t recognize it, but then again, he doesn’t pay much attention to Hosea’s herbal remedies and how he makes them. “What’s this for?”

“Pain relief, mostly. It numbs the area almost completely for a couple of hours.”

“She hurt?”

“Now, son, that isn’t my story to tell,” Hosea says gently. “It’s an old injury she doesn’t take proper care of, is all. You make sure she gets it though, all right?”

“I will,” he promises. At that note of confirmation, he excuses himself to begin getting ready for the trip, Charles following along behind him. “Charles, you mind gettin’ the wagon hitched up? I’ll join ya in a few minutes.”

“Of course,” he nods.

“And could ya grab one of the camp horses instead of Boadicea? She needs her rest.” 

“Got it.”

Arthur watches him go for a few seconds, then ducks back into his tent. He doesn’t know much about Charles, hasn’t done much with him other than a few jobs with a large group. He’s quiet, that’s for sure, but he’ll take silence over an hour with Sean any day – at this point, Arthur probably knows more about Sean’s da than he does the kid himself. 

Since they’ll likely only be gone for about a night, he grabs the bare minimum needed for the journey. A few provisions, his journal, treats for the horses. Anything they run out of on the way can be grabbed in Strawberry. Though he doubts he’ll need too much firepower, he takes both his pistols, just in case.

He leaves his tent and heads over to where Charles has gotten the wagon ready. Together, the two of them finish their preparations just as the sun reaches the highest point in the sky. If they make good time, they could get to Strawberry before it’s too dark; the thought of sleeping in a real bed tonight is enough to spur him into movement. Almost immediately after they’ve prepped everything, the two men are out of the camp without delay.

A little way into the journey, Arthur clears his throat to speak. “So, Charles. You ain’t been here long but you seem like a reasonable man. Whatchu think ‘bout the Blackwater job?”

“Dutch seems like he has a plan,” Charles replies after a thoughtful beat. “And if everything works out, then we’ll have more money than we’ve had in a while. But. . .” 

He pauses, letting the silence stretch on; Arthur finishes it for him, “But it don’t feel right?” 

Charles hums in affirmation.

“I just got a bad feeling,” Arthur adds, keeping his eyes on the road and whistling for the horses to pick up the pace. “Don’t know why. And if things go to hell, Dutch an’ Hosea will get us outta it, they always do, just. . .ah, here I go again, ramblin’ on like an old fool. You probably don’t wanna hear any of this.”

“You aren’t a fool, Arthur,” Charles frowns. “You’ve been with this gang a long time – I trust that you’d know when something isn’t right.”

“You’re one of the few that does,” Arthur mutters, focusing his attention on the reins and ducking his head in an attempt to hide how his cheeks redden at Charles’s words and how a pleasant feeling sparks low in his gut. It is, at the very least, nice to have his feelings acknowledged by someone other than Hosea.

The rest of the ride is uneventful, spent mostly in companionable quiet until they make it to Strawberry. As expected, the sun is just starting to set when they enter the town. Figuring that it would be best to wait until the next morning, Arthur steers the horses in the direction of the hotel.

“Mind staying the night?” 

“And give up the opportunity to sleep in a real bed for once?” Charles smiles, shaking his head. “Like you even have to ask.” 

At the other's enthusiasm, Arthur can't help but grin back. Stopping the wagon in front of the hotel, Arthur jumps down and waits for the other to do the same. “I’ll get us a room. Could ya take the horses ‘round the stable while I do?” 

“‘Course.” 

Whistling under his breath, Arthur enters the hotel and books a room. After a minute’s thought, he adds a hot meal and two baths to his check. Might as well take advantage of Strawberry’s hospitality while they’re here. 

It’s only until he gets to the room that he realizes his mistake: there’s only one bed and it isn’t very big.

As he stands in the doorway, he curses under his breath and rubs the back of his neck nervously. While Arthur doesn’t mind sleeping in close quarters with someone he trusted, the last thing he wants is to make Charles uncomfortable. There’s a difference between laying next to someone in a tent and sharing the same blanket with another man. 

But it’s easy enough to come to a decision – he’’ll take the floor and let Charles have the bed; it’s only fair considering Arthur has his own cot back at camp. With that in mind, he sets his things next to the bed and goes about getting a bath prepared for himself. It isn’t too long of a wait and it’s only a few minutes later that he’s shooing away the bath girls and insisting he can take care of everything himself. 

A low groan erupts from his lips as he sinks down into the hot water, letting it penetrate deep in his bones for a few seconds. He’s not one to relax, not when there’s work to be done, but it won’t harm anyone if he sits in peace for a little, right? Still, he doesn’t think he’s made to be idle; he starts scrubbing ferociously, making sure that he gets every last bit of dirt off his body and pays extra attention to cleanliness.

. . .Not that he’s going to be sharing the bed with Charles – or even be close to him in any way. He just wants to make sure he doesn’t smell. That’s all.

Once he’s out of the tub, he wrinkles his nose at his dirty clothes as he puts them back on, making a note to wash them once he’s back at camp. As he leaves the bathroom, he surreptitiously raises one of his arms to sniff at his armpit (does clean skin make sweaty clothes smell better?) – only to turn the corner and nearly run into his traveling companion. 

“Ah, shi– _Charles!”_ The tips of his ears redden when the other man reaches out a hand to Arthur’s arm to steady him, the touch burning like electricity in his veins. “M’sorry, didn’t see ya comin’ ‘round there.” 

That damned smile continues to grace Charles’ lips. “No harm done.” 

“I got us a room,” Arthur continues. “Thing is, there’s only one bed. Since you was so excited ‘bout not sleepin’ on the ground, I was thinkin’ that it would be no hardship for me to take the floor.” 

Charles’ brow furrows, frowning slightly. “It’s no problem, Arthur. I could take the floor, or we could share. I don’t mind.”

“Aw, ya don’t have to – ”

“Really,” Charles stresses. “I don’t mind. Both of us need could use a good sleep so why don’t we just share?”

And before Arthur can even reply, the other man switches the topic of conversation like it’s no big deal. Clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, he says easily, “I’m going to take a bath. I’ll see you back in the room.” 

With that, Charles leaves Arthur standing in the middle of the hallway like a bumbling fool, hand raised awkwardly and expression frozen for a few seconds before he remembers himself, swearing under his breath at his foolishness. _Damned brain actin’ like I’m a teenage boy all over again. . ._

* * *

In the morning, Arthur wakes first.

It’s not surprising, considering he’d spent half the night awake in fear of accidentally doing something strange in his sleep. He obviously finds Charles attractive – _and it’s been a while since Mary_. He’d been worried his body would act without his mind’s permission and he would wake up wrapped around the other man like a boa constrictor.

Despite only getting a few uninterrupted hours – he can't remember a time where he hasn't slept with one eye open –Arthur feels better than he has in a long time. He squints as his eyes get adjusted to the sunlight that has somehow snuck into the room through the curtains. Reaching over to nudge Charles gently in the shoulder, he says groggily, “C’mon. We best get goin’.”

“Mhm,” Charles grunts. “Damn, I haven’t slept that well in weeks.”

Arthur purposely does not look at Charles as he gets out of bed, purposely doesn’t look at the way the sheets pool around his hips or how his shirt rides up as Charles stretches his arms over his head.

(No, Arthur does not look at all.)

Despite a restful night and morning disorientation, habit has them up and ready to go within minutes without lingering too long. It’s a beautiful day, the sun high up in the sky and air chilled from Strawberry’s location up in the mountains. Despite that, Arthur can’t help but pull his jacket a little tighter around his body, shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s never liked the cold much, especially not the kind that makes your breath puff out in front of your mouth. 

Hosea had said to search around the outskirts of town and spread out from there. This “Lilith Dumont” had given vague instructions in her last letter and Arthur isn’t feeling too kindly towards her after they’ve spent about twenty minutes wandering near aimlessly.

“Think this is the place,” Charles says finally, squinting up at a building that somewhat matched the description given to them. “If it isn’t, then we must have gotten something wrong.”

“Reckon so,” Arthur replies lowly, hooking his thumbs on his belt and giving it a once over. “Let’s get this over with. I wanna get back t’camp before nightfall.” 

He enters the fence’s shop, pulling Hosea’s list out of his satchel as he does it. At the same time he turns towards the counter, the woman standing behind it meets his eyes – and Arthur freezes, jerking slightly in shock. Dark hair, dark eyes, scar on her jaw. . .God damn it, he knows that face and knows what’s coming next – 

This time, he’s ready. He knows what’s likely to come next. Instead of drawing his sidearm, however, he holds up his hands and speaks before she moves, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. The law ain’t after me this time. I promise you we’ll be in and out in less than five minutes, all right?” 

Charles enters right after him, sensing the tension in the air and saying nothing. It’s clear he’s letting Arthur take the lead on this one. Once again, he thanks his lucky stars that Dutch had chosen Charles for this mission instead of one of the others. 

The woman doesn’t waiver. “You think I’m gonna trust a word that comes outta your mouth?” 

“Think about it,” he insists. “You see a bunch of officers runnin’ ‘round Strawberry today?”

Her shoulders stiffen, jaw clenching. “I haven’t been into town today, so I wouldn’t know.” 

“Listen, we ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he tries again. “We’re here because – “

“How did you find me?” she interrupts. “I left New Austin _months_ ago. This is a coincidence, right?

“Well, yes,” Arthur replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “And – no. Just – are you Lilith Dumont?”

Her face blanches, crippling fear passing over her expression. He knows what she’s going to do before she does it but only moves to place his hand on his still holstered weapon. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles following his lead and doing the same. A lesser man – _Micah_ – likely would almost shot her by now but he’s not that desperate.

The woman, on the other hand, cocks her gun, eyes blazing. Arthur’s a damn good shot but the possibility of a twitchy trigger finger throws their odds to hell. “How the hell do you know that name?” 

Before Arthur can curse his inability to interact with this woman without threats of violence, Charles steps in swiftly and takes over. “We were sent by Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews. The two of them said that you were an old friend and you could help us.”

“You’re with Dutch and Hosea?” 

After glancing at Charles’ encouraging face and the small gesture he makes towards the woman, Arthur nods in agreement. It’s a risky maneuver, tossing around names of wanted men like this, but he takes a chance. “Those two practically raised me.” 

The woman studies them for a minute. Arthur tries to keep his face as open and warm as possible despite their history. Though she likely had her reasons for acting the way she had all those years ago, he’s still a little sore that she hadn’t given him a place to stay for a few hours, more so now that he knows she’s pals with ol’Dutch and Hosea. 

“All right,” the woman says slowly, lowering her gun. Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t know he’d been holding, holstering his weapon. “What do you need?”

Taking a tentative step forward with easy movements so as to not set her off again, Arthur hands over what Hosea had written. He’d read the requests this morning, noting that it’s mostly uncommon weapons and explosives. Now that he’s faced with the woman who’s supposed to give them these supplies, he almost wonders if Hosea and Dutch had given him the wrong name; there’s trinkets and herbs being sold here, not firearms. 

She scans the list quickly, then glances up at him. “No. And as you guessed, I’m Lilith. But I’d prefer if you called me Clara Sweeney while you’re here.” 

“Charles Smith,” Charles replies, then jerks a thumb in Arthur’s direction, “and that’s Arthur Morgan. I take it the two of you have met?”

Lilith nods. “Back when I set up shop in New Austin, your pal Arthur here tried to set the law on me.” 

Arthur reels back, face flushing indignantly. “Hey, that ain’t what happened and you know it! I knew you was a fence and I was just askin’ for help.”

“First and foremost, I am a collector,” she replies, turning up her nose. “I only fence goods for people I trust, which does not include you.”

But it does include Dutch and Hosea, Arthur notes warily, wondering about the nature of their shared past and why he hasn’t heard about it until now. 

“I’ve got most of this stuff somewhere in here,” she continues, jerking her thumb back to where the store room is. “I trust you can choose for yourselves, so,” she reaches under the counter and pulls out a box of knives of all shapes and sizes, “take what you need while I grab the explosives.”

Once Lilith has left the main room, Charles says mildly, “She’s got quite the collection.”

Eyeing a rather ornate cane next to the door (who’s even in the market for that kind of thing?), Arthur scowls. He picks up a throwing knife and examines it, turning it over in the light. It’s nice, got a good weight to it. “Woman damn near shot me in New Austin.”

“If Dutch says he trusts her, then we should too.” 

Arthur shrugs a half-hearted shoulder even though he knows Charles is right. He’s not confident Lilith Dumont won’t try to shoot him again, but hopefully his association with Dutch will make her hesitate before she pulls the trigger. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Amusement laces Charles’ voice. “Never said you had to.” 

Lilith bustles in at that moment, loud as an unexpected thunderstorm on a peaceful spring day. In her arms she carries a crate that nearly dwarfs her in size, loaded to the brim with dynamite and molotov cocktails.

“This is all I have,” she says breathlessly, dropping the box on the counter with a thunk. “I don’t have everything but it should be enough.”

“Looks like it,” Charles nods. “Let’s start getting the wagon loaded and we can get out of your hair.”

Arthur reaches for the crate but she beats him to it, wrapping her arms around the wooden frame and lifting it up with a grunt. For lack of anything else to do, Arthur walks to the door and holds it open for her. “Wagon’s out front.”

“Got it,” she replies and starts walking over to him. But there’s something wrong with her gait – her right leg drags just a hair behind her left one, leaving her slightly imbalanced. It’s not too noticeable but Arthur has always had a keen eye for these kind of things; he shares a look with Charles over her head and frowns. It’s barely there but a limp nonetheless.

He holds the door open for her without a word but watches her nonetheless, ready if she stumbles or trips. He can’t imagine that she would take kindly to someone like him helping her but that isn’t going to stop him if she needs it. 

Regardless, he now has a suspicion of what that “old injury” Hosea told him about could be and the reason the older man had sent him along with the salve. He makes a note to remember to give it to her, wondering if someone as stubborn as Lilith Dumont would be willing to accept help from another to benefit herself.

She places the box on the back of the wagon and turns around, placing her hands on her hips expectantly, chin held high. “You boys need anything else?”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur mutters under his breath. For some reason – because of fate or God or whatever – they keep getting brought together; he doesn’t doubt that he and Charles will see her again. “This one’s trouble.”

* * *

_Excerpt from one of many letters addressed to Tacitus Kilgore._

_". . .It broke my heart to hear that your health had taken a turn for the worst a few days ago. News travels quickly from Blackwater to Strawberry. I regret not being there for you when it happened, though I don’t think there’s much I could have done. I hope that when this letter reaches you, your situation has improved._

_When you’re feeling up to it, you should come visit me. I’d had enough of the cold and decided to set up shop down south. Rhodes is a small enough town that you should find my shop without too much trouble. Bring grandmother when you come – I think the warm air will be good for her lungs. And be sure to thank her for the gift she sent a week or two ago. . ."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i hope y'all enjoyed<3 i can't promise when the next chapter will be up but i plan on writing a little each day so here's hoping it's not too long of a wait
> 
> find me on tumblr @[vanderlinde](https://vanderlinde.tumblr.com) and come say hello!


	2. chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter summary: lilith and arthur pine for charles 
> 
> in the prologue i said that the following chapters would only be in lilith's pov but i changed my mind lol. each chapter will be either in one character's pov (arthur, charles, lilith) or a mixture of the three. i'll probably write lilith the most since she's my character and im most comfortable with her, but i wanted to get other perspectives as well 
> 
> chapter lengths going forward will probably be around the word count of this one rather than the prologue, which got away from me and i didn't want to split it up
> 
> povs in this chapter: arthur / lilith

Arthur rides into Horseshoe Outlook on the O’Driscoll horse, nearly falling out of his saddle because of his exhaustion. Deep lines are etched into his face, dark purple bruises underneath his eyes that almost seem a permanent part of his features these days. He can’t remember the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep – before Blackwater? Heh, he’d gotten shot a couple months ago and spent a whole damn night unconscious, but he doubts that counts. 

As he approaches camp, he sags considerably in his saddle, posture relaxing in the relative safety of the clearing. He steers the horse towards where the others are grazing. Charles stands next to Taima so Arthur pulls up next to him; upon closer inspection, he notes that the other man is packing to leave, his bow and other provisions already packed on his mare. 

“Dutch sendin’ ya out again?” Arthur questions, pulling his horse to a stop and scratching the back of his neck, ducking his head slightly. 

It’s hard not to get flustered when he sees Charles, especially not with what happened a couple nights ago. It had just been the two of them sitting around the main fire, legs stretched out and sipping whiskey. Whether it had been the alcohol’s influence or not, they had gotten closer and closer, thighs brushing and eyes closing, lips parting slightly and leaning in – 

And then damn, drunk Bill Williamson had stumbled out of his tent, muttering about needing to piss. Just like that, they’d jumped apart and pretended the moment had never happened. 

“I offered to go hunting,” Charles replies, seemingly unaffected while tightening the straps on Taima’s saddle. “We’re running low on supplies.” 

The almost kiss had happened a few days ago but is Charles trying to run away from it now, to leave camp and get away for a while? Arthur squints slightly, trying to gauge whether or not that’s the case. He doesn’t think Charles is the type but Arthur has been burned before. 

“Don’t I know it,” Arthur mutters in response, all too aware of their dwindling remains. Dutch has been in his ear about it for days and while Arthur’s been doing his best to bring stuff back to camp, it never seems like enough. Even though it’s been a few weeks since the ferry job, they’re still not back on their feet – though not for a lack of trying. “I’d offer to keep you company but we both know I ain’t any good with a bow. ‘Sides, I’m beat.” 

“You did good with those deer up in the mountains,” Charles says, a slight frown tugging down his brows. “Don’t sell yourself short, Arthur.” 

A faint blush spreads over his cheeks, the tips of his ears bright red. He normally gets flustered from such validation but Charles’s praising does something else to him. To distract himself from his feelings, he pulls out a cigarette and tries to light it with shaky fingers, exhaustion making him uncoordinated and clumsy. “Aw, I don’t know ‘bout that. . .”

Charles reaches over and helps him, steadying him with a light touch. Arthur lights the cigarette but his focus is zeroed in the spot on his hand where Charles had brushed his skin. “You work too hard,” the other man admonishes gently. “You do more for us than anyone else. Get some rest.”

“That’s the plan,” he mutters, trying to shake himself out of whatever stupor the other man has put him in. It feels strange to have someone care about his wellbeing – he isn’t used to it, especially not from Charles. “You gonna be gone long?” 

“Maybe,” Charles shrugs, taking a step back from Arthur and hoisting himself up into Taima’s saddle. “I was thinking about heading south, down past Emerald Ranch.” 

“All right,” Arthur nods. “You be safe, now.” 

“I’ll be seeing you, Arthur,” Charles replies, turning Taima away from the other horses and heading out of camp. 

Arthur watches him leave until he can’t see him anymore, letting out a heavy breath and shaking his head at his foolishness. First Mary, now this. Sooner or later, Charles will realize what kind of man Arthur really is and pull back from any sort of affections, leaving him behind. 

(Has it started already?)

Wearily, he heads back to his tent, grunting out one word greetings to the people milling about. When he sits on his cot, he tugs off his boots and tosses them to the ground. Before he forgets about it, he pulls out a letter that had come in for Tacitus Kilgore in Valentine, and begins to read.

_“Dear Grandfather Tacitus. . .”_

* * *

Rhodes is a town full of people who stare – and Lilith is the perfect target for their wandering gazes.

Though she’s been in Lemoyne for a few months now, it hasn’t stopped. The locals are just as bad as the occasional traveller, perhaps even worse; despite interacting with most of these people at least once or twice a week, they still look as if they’ve never seen her before. 

As she makes her way down to the center of town, she wonders what the point of shock is today. Is it the fact that she’s a woman going about unsupervised? That her pain is bad enough this morning she has to use a crutch to get around? Perhaps her scar is showing, the one on her jaw that she’d tried (and failed) to cover up earlier. Or maybe it’s that she tends to pass as white from a distance but not up close and God only knows that Lemoyne is a region ripe with prejudice. 

Still, even as an embarrassed red flushes high on her cheeks – _how far she’s fallen from the outlaw who would make people turn away in apprehension!_ – she keeps her chin held high, outward expression cool and collected. Showing discomfort would likely only add to the reasons as to why she is so often labeled as odd and unusual; not only that, but her pride prevents her from appearing anything other than unbothered. 

The number of eyes on her at one time has her on edge. Though she’s gotten to the point where she expects them, it hardly eases her mind. She worries constantly about the possibility of being recognized; despite not seeing a wanted poster for her arrest in the past few years doesn’t mean that the law has given up on her. After all, changing her name and appearance in each town isn’t always enough to trick an observant face from her past. The minute she lets down her guard, it’ll all come crashing down – she just knows it. 

The sun is high in the sky as Lilith enters the general store, the oppressive heat of Rhodes causing her to sweat underneath her clothes. She greatly prefers the chilly air of Strawberry to the humidity here, wishing not for the first time that she hadn’t left her store up in the mountains. But it had been too risky to stay, especially because of what happened in Blackwater. She wouldn’t – _couldn’t_ – chance anyone putting two and two together and connecting Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith both as visitors to her shop and as participants in the failed ferry robbery. 

“Mornin’, Miss Davis. You lookin’ for anything in particular?” 

“Just browsing.” 

Her thoughts turn briefly to the van der Linde gang as she takes a slow turn around the goods, all too aware of the shopkeeper’s lingering gaze on her the entire time. In the years after she’d saved Dutch from a stray bullet and Hosea and Dutch had, in turn, saved her, she’s only ever interacted with the two of them. It’s usually through letters and packages but when their paths intertwined they would try to stop by in person and check up on her. 

Dutch sending Charles and Arthur in his stead had surprised her because it had been the first time she’d met anyone else in the gang. Despite the stories she’s heard from the two older men, she’s only ever interacted in person with the two of them; everybody else is just names and vague mental images. 

And as much as she owes to them (her loyalty, her life), she has never wanted any more than that. While they’ve tried to convince her to run with them in the past, she has firmly declined each time. The current consequences from her life as a criminal are too heavy and traumatic for her to ever chance it from happening again. 

Despite that, they’re her most loyal customers and supporters. Dutch’s gang is the only outlaw group that she would willingly fence goods for, filling orders for them every couple of months. It’s one of the only constants in her line of work; sometimes there isn’t much of a market for old coins or fossils, but Dutch will _always_ need ammunition and firepower. 

From what she’s heard, they’ve had their strings of bad luck before, but never anything like this, never anything plastered on the front pages of newspapers and on the tip of everyone’s tongues. _Did you hear about what happened in Blackwater? About the outlaws trying to rob the ferry? About the young girl who was shot?_

But she hasn’t heard anything except whispers of gossip and what’s been published in the paper. That isn’t specific enough – some dead and some captured, but who? Though she doesn’t expect a response from her letter to Tacitus Kilgore, she wishes. . .

Quickly, she shakes herself from that line of thought. What happens to the van der Linde gang is none of her concern – she has her own life, her own _legal_ business practice. While she cares about Dutch and Hosea, she has other worries to focus on. The only reason she’s even _thinking_ about it is for the sake of her business; without Dutch and Hosea’s continued financial assistance, she would surely be scrambling for funds. 

“Will that be all, miss?” The shopkeeper asks as she places a small package of crackers and a fresh apple. It’s not a lot but still good food for the road; on days she goes out collecting, she often forgets to eat more than a snack every few hours. 

“Yes, thank you.” Reaching into her pocket with her free hand, she pulls out a handful of coins to cover the cost. She counts them before sliding them across the counter. She’s careful with her money, never wanting to spend more than she needs and risk having to get funds through more salacious activities, even if her fingers still itch when she passes a particularly rich traveller. 

More often than not, she’ll have to shove her hands so deep in her dress pockets to resist the temptation. 

Carefully, she places her purchases in her satchel and walks out of the shop, the bell ringing cheerfully above her head as she opens the door. It’s a bit of a trek up to the stables outside of Rhodes but having Rosebud will make today’s plan so much easier on her ankle. Most days it’s a dull throb, alleviated with some of Hosea’s salve and bandages wound around it so it’s steady. However, upon waking this morning she knew that it would be a difficult day, so she’d decided to take her crutch with her. 

Still, she muses grimly to herself, there’s no rest for the wicked – so on she walks. Sometimes the exercise does her good. Sometimes it doesn’t. 

By the time she reaches the stables, her ankle is on fire and her limp worsening as she enters the barn. Panting in exertion, she waves down a stablehand and asks him to saddle up Rosebud for her while she takes weight off of it, flipping him a quarter for his extra efforts. 

There’s a crate next to the entrance and she sits down on it gingerly. With her bad leg stretched out in front of her, she leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes. Slowly, she inhales and exhales, trying to calm her breathing. It does little to ease the pain but she’ll do anything for the tiniest bit of relief. 

She opens her eyes when she hears the sounds of hooves heading her way. Her mare leans down and butts her nose into Lilith’s arm, expectant and waiting for scratches. Lilith laughs, reaching up to pet Rosebud gently on the face, her heart swelling with happiness. Though she can’t make it up to the stables every day, she tries her damnedest to come as often as possible. Unfortunately, there isn’t an adequate spot for Rosebud outside her store so she rents out a stall here for her mare; it’s expensive but a small price to pay for the comfort of her stead.

Throughout the years, Rosebud has been her constant companion; sometimes, she wonders why she even bothers making connections with other people when in a few months it’ll just be her and her mare on their own again. 

“There’s a girl,” Lilith coos, voice softening in the way it does only when she speaks to her mare. She gets up slowly, using Rosebud for balance. Used to this, the small horse stands patiently and waits for Lilith to clamber up on the crates and hoist herself up into the saddle. It’s a process that takes far too long for someone with all her years of horseback riding, but her life is different now. This is the new normal. 

Once she’s seated on top of Rosebud, she leans to the side and grabs her crutch from where it’s propped up against the wall. She twists backwards and ties it to the back of her saddle. When it’s secured, she slips her good foot in the stirrups, letting the other one hang off to the side, nudges Rosebud to a walk and leaves the stable. 

Except for the occasional direction and tap of her knees, Lilith doesn’t pay much attention to the road in front of her. She rummages around in her satchel, pulling out the supplies she’ll need for the day; then, she attaches her metal detector to one of her belt loops, the heavy device clunking against her hip with every step. 

“Got a busy day ahead of us, girl,” she murmurs as she turns Rosebud off the road and towards Bolger Blade, the old Civil War battlefield in view on the horizon. She reaches back into her bag and pulls out her journal, balancing the book on her saddle horn as she flips through it, intent on checking over her list of supplies for the day. 

A strange little man had come into her shop a few days ago and nearly bought out her entire supply of exotic feathers and flowers. Alongside those and various herbs in general, she’d also been itching to check out Bolger Blade and see what items her metal detector would be able to pick up. 

When she glances up again, she can just barely make out the shape of another horse walking up the path in the opposite direction. With the sun’s rays blinding her, it’s difficult to see more than a vague impression of a figure astride and heading her way.

Though she’s never had any trouble in Rhodes, her paranoia still ramps up in full force. She places a hand on her belt where she knows her pistol rests, new and untouched since she’d bought it. No matter how many strangers she passes on the road, she’s never quite been able to shake the anxieties that her past has drilled into her mind. 

_Stay alert, stay alive._

As the stranger gets closer, she recognizes him as soon as his face comes into view – Charles Smith, heading into Rhodes with a rabbit tied to his saddle and a deer on the back of his horse, looking weary and a little worse for wear but not injured and not dead.

Lilith almost – _almost_ – keeps going, almost tucks her head in her chest and pretends she doesn’t recognize him. But Charles sees her before she can do that; when he raises his hand slightly in a wave and offers her a half-smile, she tugs on the reins to stop her mare.

“Morning, Miss. . .”

“Miss Davis,” she replies, filling in the blanks for him. “Florence Davis.” 

“Miss Davis,” he repeats with a soft smile. “It’s good to see you after. . .after everything.” 

A beat passes. She doesn’t know what to say to this man, who’s practically unknown to her but yet so familiar, so she blurts out dryly, “You look well.” 

At that, he chuckles softly. “I’ve certainly been better.

A smile sparks at her lips despite herself. Unconsciously, she leans forward in her saddle, wanting to get closer, wanting to make him laugh like that again; it’s only after a few seconds that she catches herself, cursing the traitorous part of her that’s been drawn so easily into Charles Smith’s orbit. Changing the subject, she keeps her voice low when she asks, “What exactly happened in Blackwater?” 

Charles rubs at his jaw, frowning. “The job went badly. Lost a few people and had to ride east to get away from the law.” 

“Dutch and Hosea?” For her business’s sake, she reminds herself. 

He pauses, opens his mouth slightly but clearly thinks better of it. “They’re fine,” he says after a beat. “Arthur, too. I don’t know if you know anyone else.” 

Rosebud shifts underneath her, hoof digging into the ground. Lilith straightens in the saddle, trying to hide the way her shoulders sag in relief at the news. “No, I’m not. . .I’m just the fence, Mr. Smith. Nothing more.” 

“Charles.” 

“Just the fence, Charles.” The name sits strangely on her tongue, weirdly intimate for this only being their second meeting, but she likes the way it sounds. _Charles._

And as much as she wishes to push the topic of Blackwater – there’s something he isn’t telling her, she can feel it – she also gets that Charles doesn’t know much more about it than what he’s told her. “You camped out around here somewhere?” 

“We spent a few weeks up in the mountains, in an old mining town called Colter. Decided to move east so we set up close to Valentine.”

She hasn’t spent much time in Valentine so she doesn’t know the area well. Still, Rhodes is a far way from that livestock town; he’s made quite the journey south. “You need supplies?” 

Charles raises a brow in confusion. “You’ve got a shop down here?” 

“Yeah. I moved after Blackwater, just in case.” 

“No, I. . .” he pauses. “To be honest, I didn’t know I would run into you.” 

Until he says it, Lilith hadn’t realized that a small, traitorous part of her wished that he had. Like she’d said, she’s not really a member of Dutch’s gang – and this is out of her own design. No matter how much she wishes she had that protection and comfort running with group provides, she _chooses_ to live like this. Even if Charles – or anyone else – had gotten one of her letters, they owe her nothing. 

She would do best to remember that.

“Well, I’d best be getting on,” she says after a beat, turning her gaze back to Bolger Blade to purposely avoid eye contact. “Got a busy day ahead of me.” 

“I don’t want to keep you,” Charles says, looking up the road in the other direction, back where she’d come from. 

Despite their goodbyes, neither make a move to leave. After a beat, he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, “I don’t know if this is too forward but if you wanted to. . .you could come back with me. See Dutch and Hosea for yourself, then maybe stay at the camp for a night. They would be glad to see you, I’m sure.”

Oh, but how Lilith’s tempted by his offer. She hasn’t felt right in weeks, still unsteady from her move across the country and the uncertainty about what happened in Blackwater. To confirm that Dutch and Hosea were all right would ease her anxieties considerably, and she supposes that she could check in on Arthur, too, while she’s there. . .

And while she knows they would welcome her with open arms, she also knows that she has to decline. She owes Dutch and Hosea her life and likely will always be indebted to them, but once she dips her toes back into thieving she won’t be able to stop; it tempts her enough already, luring her back with its siren song. Because of that, her interactions with the van der Linde gang are _just_ business and that’s all they’ll ever be. She won’t – _can’t_ – risk getting caught doing illegal activities again, not when she’s still paying the consequences all these years later. 

“I can’t,” she says, glancing back at the other man. “But give them my best wishes, will you?”

“I’ll tell Arthur, too.” 

She doesn’t know Arthur well enough for that, but who is she to look a gift horse in the mouth? He’s doing her a favor so she says nothing about it. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Charles dips his head graciously in response. “I’ll see you around. . .Miss Dumont.” 

It’s strange to hear her real name said so openly after all these years of pretending to be someone else. And the way he says it, so warm and gentle like he _cares._ . .

(It’s just business and she would be better off remembering that.)

With that, he nudges Taima into a trot. She watches him leave before turning back to the road and her destination. Her heart feels strangely heavy – even though this is how she’s always been and never wanted it any different. It’s only been very recently since that itch has returned, since she’d moved, since Blackwater, since Arthur and Charles had walked into her shop in Strawberry. 

But no matter how strong the urge is to turn back to outlawing, she’s so much stronger. 

“C’mon, girl,” she murmurs to Rosebud, pushing her into a brisk walk. After all, old Civil War valuables won’t dig up themselves. “It’s just me and you now.” 

_Like always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok since arthur watched charles ride away (to lilith) and lilith watched charles ride (back to arthur) i will have to write my boy charles smith watching both of them ride away to complete the circle
> 
> thanks for reading and supporting this self-indulgent nonsense!! i appreciate you so much!


	3. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a charles/arthur focused chapter. their relationship will be pretty much established as we get to the meat of the story and ot3 will be more slow burn. while this story does center around lilith, i wanted to develop all aspects of the relationship and make sure that charles and arthur got some moments too<3
> 
> pov(s): charles

The next morning, Charles rides into camp with the fruits of his labor. There’s a large White-tail buck on the back of Taima and two rabbits hanging from the side of his saddle. It had been a successful hunting trip, with enough food to hopefully feed the gang properly for the rest of the week. 

Though he’s been running with Dutch for about six months now, it’s often overwhelming to spend so much time with other people when he’s used to going at it alone. As great as it is not to have to sleep with one eye open every day, he needs his own space as well. Solo hunting trips provide the perfect opportunity for this – it’s just enough time for him to take a break away from the others and catch his breath. 

Once he’s taken off Taima’s saddle, he leaves her to graze with the other horses, letting Kieran know that he’ll be back later to groom her properly. With the deer across his shoulders, he heads towards the center of the camp, nodding in response to the whistles and comments of appreciation at the prospect of fresh meat. Despite the attention, his thoughts elsewhere. He searches the camp for Arthur, scanning faces as he unloads his kills at Pearson’s wagon. The two of them are long overdue for a conversation. 

Their almost kiss a few days ago has been on a constant replay in his mind ever since it happened. For a brief second, he and Arthur had shared the same breath – and it would have turned into something more, if not for Bill in a drunken stupor clamoring out of his tent needing to piss. Charles has been with both men and women in his life but those instances have never felt as intimate as it had with Arthur. 

But the other man hadn’t brought it up since, leaving Charles to wonder why. Arthur isn’t the type to discriminate based on skin color – nobody in the gang is (with the exception of Micah and occasionally Bill) – so that’s an easy possibility to eliminate. And while Charles considers other options, such as being uncomfortable with affection between two men, he ultimately comes to the conclusion that the most likely reason Arthur hasn’t said a word is because he doesn’t know what to say. 

Arthur gets flustered easily, his brain seemingly short-circuiting when presented with something he doesn’t know how to answer. Charles has noticed the way that Arthur’s face reddens and how his head ducks around certain topics – especially sex and romance. This theory is only confirmed Charles purposely makes it so their hands or arms brush when they’re close by and watches Arthur’s wide-eyed reaction fondly. 

Shaking his head as if to refocus his scattered thoughts, he spots Mary-Beth and Tilly sitting in the shade and mending clothes. While there’s no sign of Arthur, he figures that at least one of them would know where he is; he straightens his shoulders and heads in their direction. 

“Miss Gaskill, Miss Jackson,” he says, dipping his head in greeting. “Mind if I ask for a favor?” 

“If it’s more laundry,” Tilly mutters under her breath, “we’re done for the day.” 

“Tilly!” Mary-Beth hisses, nudging the other woman in the ribs. She looks up at Charles with a slightly strained smile on her face. “If you do have laundry that needs doin’, we wouldn’t mind. Unlike others,” she scowls, shooting a look in Micah’s direction, who’s lazing around the camp like he owns the place, “you’re actually _considerate.”_

Tilly sighs, placing her sewing on her lap and looking up at him. “What can we do for you, Mr. Smith?” 

Charles has always had the opinion that the talents of the women in camp are wasted on chores. They are capable of much more than mending and patching clothing (a skill that many of the men know themselves) and he thinks they should go out on jobs more often. Despite that, he’s never broached his thoughts to Dutch and Hosea. The two of them always make a point to listen to what he has to say, but he hasn’t been in the gang nearly long enough to suggest something like that. 

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he says, not wanting to bother them for too long. “I was just wondering if you had seen Arthur today.”

“He rode in about an hour ago,” Mary-Beth tells him, glancing over to where the horses are. Charles follows her gaze; he hadn’t even noticed Arthur’s mare when he’d arrived, but there she is, grazing near Taima. “Maybe try his tent?” 

He nods in response, already turning on his heel in the direction of Arthur’s tent. “Thank you. I will.” 

“So you don’t have laundry, then?” 

He pauses, turning back to the women and speaking over his shoulder; that brings a half-smile to his face. “No laundry.” 

As he strides away, he can just barely make out Tilly’s muttered, _“Thank God.”_

When he gets there, Charles pauses just out of sight near Arthur’s wagon. If Arthur’s resting or taking some time for himself, Charles is unwilling to disturb the other man. He sees just how hard Dutch works Arthur, a fact that even Arthur struggles to realize. After a beat, Charles pushes forward, knowing that he could always come back later if necessary. 

“Arthur? You there?” 

After a beat, Arthur tugs back the tent flap with narrowed eyes but visibly relaxes at the sight of the other man. “Thought I heard someone,” he says. “Whatchu need, Charles?” 

“Don’t need anything,” he says, hating how Arthur’s first response upon seeing someone outside his tent is the assumption that they want him to do something for them. “I just wanted to talk. But if this is a bad time, I can come back later.” 

“Naw, it’s fine,” Arthur replies, his slow Southern drawl dragging out the syllables and making the words sound longer than they are. “I ain’t doin’ anything important. Come on in.” 

“All right,” Charles acquises quietly, ducking underneath canvas and entering the small space. With the tent flaps closed it’s almost stifling in the midday heat, with only a tiny gap in the back to let in fresh air; even then, it doesn’t provide much ventilation. Despite that small inconvenience, he is grateful for the privacy Arthur’s tent allows; he doesn’t need any prying eyes or eavesdroppers in what is supposed to be a private moment. 

Instead of choosing to stand hunched over – the ceiling a bit too short for his tall stature – when Arthur makes room for him on the cot, Charles takes a seat next to him, perched on the end of the bed but facing the other man. Arthur leans his back up against the wagon but doesn’t look relaxed; his shoulders are stiffened slightly, his brow just barely furrowed. Charles suspects that Arthur has a similar idea of what’s currently happening and is preparing himself for a wide variety of outcomes. 

Charles can only hope that he doesn’t disappoint the other man, that they share the same feelings Charles has been harboring for a while now. Even before Blackwater, there had been _something_ that had pulled him to Arthur. Though they hadn’t spoke much – the trip up to Strawberry being one of the first opportunities – Charles secretly admired the other from a distance, his steadfast loyalty, his kindness. 

And, of course, those irresistible piercing blue eyes. 

He’s silent for a moment, thinking of what he wants to say and how he wants to say it, knowing that he has to choose his words carefully so not to cause any undue harm. But the tension is palpable and Arthur clearly feels it; the other man clears his throat and starts before Charles has fully collected his thoughts. 

“You wanted to. . .ah, talk?” 

“Yes,” Charles says simply, deciding the best approach is to be blunt and lay everything out before Arthur to avoid misinformation. Not point in beating around the bush or wasting time on small talk and formalities. “About what happened a few nights ago when we were sitting alone by the campfire.” 

“Aw, hell,” Arthur mutters, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are flushed already. “Listen, it’s already forgotten. I know I ain’t. . .well, I ain’t much of anythin’ but I’m good on my word. Don’t worry about it no more.” 

“That’s not what I want,” Charles says gently, having already expected this kind of response. If he knows one thing about Arthur, it’s that his self-hatred often overshadows most of Arthur’s thoughts. “What if I told you that I didn’t want to forget? Or that I want to do it again?” 

Arthur forces an uncomfortable chuckle and avoids eye contact, staring at a random place on the ground. “Charles, why in hell would ya want an ugly fool like me when you’re – ” 

“When I’m what?” 

“You know,” Arthur gestures vaguely in his direction, turning redder by the second. “Like – like _that.”_

Charles raises an amused brow but doesn’t say anything else about it, not wanting to push the other man any farther. The clear desire in Arthur’s eyes is enough to spark desire low in Charles’s gut. His heart feels as if it’s threatening to break its way out of his chest; he had suspected, of course, that Arthur might feel the same way, but to practically have it confirmed. . .

(It’s what he’s always wanted but never found in anyone before.)

“You’re not ugly, Arthur,” he says lowly, leaning towards Arthur slightly. There’s room for him to back away, to leave if he so wants to, but Charles doesn’t think that he will, not when he can see the way Arthur’s eyes dart from his lips to back up his face. “Far from it.” 

Arthur opens his mouth, likely to deny that, but Charles cuts him off. “You’re not ugly or old or whatever it is you think of yourself. You’re loyal, strong, hardworking. . .you are so much more than you think you are, Arthur.” 

“Charles. . .” 

“We can argue about it all you want later,” Charles murmurs. Their faces are a hairsbreadth apart, even closer than they’d gotten a few nights ago. “But right now, I just want to kiss you.” 

Arthur sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly. “I. . .” he starts, pauses. And, never one to adequately put his feelings into words, Arthur lurches forward to press his lips against Charles’s instead of speaking anymore. 

It’s over before Charles can even process that Arthur’s kissed him, the other man pulling away quickly despite Charles barely having any time to react properly, panting softly and red-faced. It’s not like Charles is unaffected, though; with half-lidded eyes and body tight with desire, he thinks Arthur one of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen. 

“M’sorry, I shouldn’t have – ” 

“Don’t apologize,” Charles replies, shaking his head. Slowly enough that Arthur can pull away should he want to, Charles reaches forward and brushes a piece of hair off of the other man’s forehead oh so gently. His hand lingers, unwilling to pull away so soon; Arthur seems to lean into his touch unconsciously. “I wanted it. Can I. . .” 

An almost imperceptible nod, hard to notice if Charles hadn’t been so close to him. 

Taking that as a sign to move forward once again, Charles closes the gap between them, leaning down slightly to kiss Arthur properly, groaning softly as their lips meet. One hand cups the back of Arthur’s neck to support him better, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. Arthur grips Charles’s so tightly it’s as if he’s holding on for dear life, trying to get closer and closer. 

The cot creaks beneath them but neither pay it any mind. Charles nips at Arthur’s lower lip, desire sparking when it makes the other man moan into his mouth. All too soon they break apart, flushed and panting. Charles eyes Arthur appreciatively, all mussed and disheveled from their kiss, his cheeks red and lips swollen; he figures he must look the same, eyes wide and wanting to be drawn back into Arthur’s orbit. 

“That was. . .” Arthur shakes his head. “I ain’t never been kissed quite like that.” 

“Me either,” Charles agrees softly. He feels. . .well, he feels like a damn teenager again, bright and full of hope. Funny how something as small as a kiss could strike a chord so deeply within him; Charles has never been much of a romantic but he feels like one now, wants that with Arthur if he’ll have him. And as much as he wants to surge forward once again and capture Arthur’s lips once more, he doesn’t want to mess anything up by moving too quickly. “But I don’t want to rush this.” 

“As much as I want to do that again,” Arthur starts, leaning back to resume how he’d been sitting earlier, “s’probably a good idea,” 

Charles does the same, but his posture is more relaxed, more comfortable than it had been before. He can’t hide the way his eyes keep darting over to where Arthur’s sitting, fighting down a smile every time he does. 

When their gazes meet – as they’re both not so subtly staring at each other – Charles ducks his head, huffing out a laugh. His chest feels fit to burst. 

“Heard that you brought back a nice lookin’ deer this morning,” Arthur says, finally breaking the silence. “I take it you had good luck? The rest of us haven’t been gettin’ much lately.” 

Remembering the story Hosea had told them about Arthur’s first time hunting with a shotgun, Charles can’t hide a smirk when he imagines the lead-filled rabbit. Despite their luck together in Colter, Arthur is by no means a master hunter. “They send you out?” 

Arthur scowls, likely thinking the same thing. “Don’t know why ya bother askin’ when ya already know the answer.”

“I went down south near Rhodes. There’s good hunting there. Remember the fence from Strawberry? Ran into her, too.” 

“Lilith Dumont?” Arthur whistles lowly at Charles’s nod, scratching at his face absently. “Got a letter from her sayin’ she moved down there after Blackwater.” 

“She said about the same. Told me to pass along her best to you, Dutch, and Hosea.” 

“That woman’s a spitfire,” Arthur says. “She wrote to Dutch an’ Hosea like they were her grandparents. Got a good chuckle outta Hosea’s reaction when he found out he was supposed t’ be the grandmother.”

“One hell of a coincidence,” Charles murmurs finally. “Country’s so big and yet we keep runnin’ into her.” 

Arthur grunts in agreement. 

Charles doesn’t know what to make of Lilith Dumont. It’s an odd thing, seeing her twice in a few weeks when he’d gone his entire life without knowing her. A part of him wants to brush this off but he knows he’ll be seeing her again, tangled as she is with the van der Linde gang. And with the way things have been going lately in the wake of Blackwater, he suspects her loyalty to Dutch and Hosea will get her drawn into the thick of things. 

It’s clear that she’s been through a lot, perhaps too much for one person to handle on their own. Even without the physical markers of her trauma, Charles could see it in her eyes, in the way that she carries herself, in her mannerisms and speech. And while he barely knows anything about her, can’t help but see her as a sort of kindred spirit, someone who would not only recognize but also understand some of what he himself has gone through. 

But Lilith Dumont isn’t sitting next to him and she certainly isn’t the person he’d just kissed; Charles brushes off any thoughts of her and focuses on the present moment. Even though they’re only a few inches apart, Charles itches to close the distance. He’d meant it when he said he doesn’t want to rush things with Arthur but he can’t help in wanting that type of intimacy now that he knows his feelings are returned. 

Silently, he holds out an arm and makes eye contact with him to express his nonverbal question. Arthur hesitates for a few seconds but shifts across the cot until Charles can drape his arm across the other man’s shoulders. 

“I gotta – ” Arthur says after a beat, slightly nervous. “Well, Dutch’ll be on my case if I’m just sittin’ around in here all day but I reckon you could come around tonight, if ya wanted. Not to do anythin’ or – just t’ sit. Talk. I could write in my journal and you. . .well, you. . .” 

With a small smile, Charles interrupts Arthur’s ramblings once he trails off into silence. Despite how closely they’re sitting and their past affections, it’s not enough to eliminate all of Arthur’s shyness; Charles finds it endearing. “I’ve got a watch shift this evening but after. . .I’d like that, Arthur.” 

“I. . .all right.” 

“What else do you have to do today?” Charles murmurs; after a beat, he tilts his head slightly to the side to press a soft kiss to the top of Arthur’s head, heart warming considerably when Arthur nuzzles further into the crook of Charles’s neck. “You weren’t in camp when I rode back in this morning.” 

“I was out fishin’ with Hosea,” Arthur responds just as softly, clearly distracted by the way Charles’s fingers run up and down his arms in a rhythmic motion, eyes closing under his ministrations. “An’ I was thinkin’. . .well, the wood needs choppin’ and I got some laundry that needs doin’.” 

Charles frowns but knows better than to argue with him; despite Arthur continuously working himself to the bone for this gang, no one seems to ever let him have a breather. He supposes that he’s at least thankful Arthur isn’t doing anything too strenuous this afternoon and settles on hoping that the other man can take a few extra hours of rest before inevitably he’s sent out again. 

“You need to make more time for yourself,” Charles chastises gently. Even though he knows better, he still has to try. “You do so much for the gang – no one would say anything if you took an afternoon off.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs after a few seconds. “But what I do ain’t enough. If we’re gonna get back on our feet, then we all gotta pitch in extra.” 

Charles sighs, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He has to trust that the other man knows what’s best for himself, even recent evidence speaks otherwise. “I. . .all right, Arthur.”

“Hey, I ain’t doin’ anythin’ right now ‘cept sittin’ here,” he points out. 

Charles chuckles. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“You’re a mighty fine pillow, Charles Smith.” 

Charles’s face heats slightly at the praise. In response, he pulls Arthur closer, tightening his arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything but hopes that his affection is clear in his actions; he’s never been a talkative man and there are times where it’s easier to express his feelings in what he does. 

This is one of those times. How else is he supposed to communicate that his heart swells in his chest? That he’s almost overcome with the rush of happiness that Arthur’s touch brings? That he’s so incredibly grateful to be here sitting in Arthur’s tent, that he’s lucky enough to have gotten to this point?

Charles kisses the top of Arthur’s head and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!


	4. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa !! i am BEYOND sorry about the wait on this one. as soon as i posted the previous chapter, I was off to school and was more busy than i imagined. not to mention how difficult it's been lately to find muse and inspiration to write! thank you all for sticking with me, i appreciate it more than you know<3
> 
> chapter pov(s): lilith

**A FEW WEEKS LATER.**

Lilith’s head jerks up as the door to her shop creaks open. Though there isn’t one of those fancy bells hanging over the entrance to alert her of customers like there are in some stores, the groaning of the corroded wood is loud enough to reach her from anywhere and break her distraction.

Smoothing back her hair to make herself look a bit more presentable, she offers up a strained smile, having not yet mastered the art of faking enthusiasm when customers show up (all these years later and she’s still so rough around the edges). Her eyes focus and she looks up as the man turns a corner and comes into view – _oh._

A cold hand reaching into her chest and clutching her heart in a vice grip. “Sheriff Gray,” she says, trying for lightness but likely coming off as stiff. “How can I help you?” 

Immediately, she’s on high alert. This is the first time any member of the law has dropped by her shop, let alone shown up unannounced. It’s easy for her anxiety to ramp up at the sight of him – and it does – but she forces herself to calm and focus on more rational thoughts. She hasn’t done anything illegal since coming to Rhodes; if he tries to use the fact she often buys and sells to criminals, she’ll play the innocent, naïve damsel card for as long as she can pull it off and hope like hell he believes her.

And if he’s here to – to collect on her bounty, she. . .

Just the thought of that makes her palms slick with sweat. Lilith discreetly wipes her hands on the front of her skirt and tunes herself back into the conversation; her mind is fuzzy and full of static, making it hard to think of anything other than her panic. She feels disorientated, disconnected from her body; she has to separate her mind from her limbs to maintain even a semblance of normalcy. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping her upright as she forces herself to take a deep breath to quiet the blaring alarm bells. 

As far as she knows, the Sheriff is a reasonable man. She’d become aware of the feud between the two families relatively soon after she’d moved here. Like most in this town, she does her best to stay out of it, to keep her head down lest she get unwanted attention for the wrong reasons. 

Had he shown up to arrest her, she tells herself firmly, he would have done so by now.

“Miss Davis,” he says pleasantly enough, hooking his thumbs in his belt and taking a slow look around her shop. Though there’s nothing incriminating on her shelves, she can’t help but follow his gaze just in case. “Why, I believe this is the first time I’ve paid a visit to your little. . .ah, business. You’ve been in Rhodes for a few months now, yes?” 

Despite it being his job to know the ins and outs of the town, she doesn’t like his attention to detail, having hoped she’d flown mostly under his radar. She’s located on the very edge of town, far enough on the outskirts that she’d hoped she would escape too much notice from the residents. “Yes, sir.” 

When he takes a few steps forward, she resists the urge to back away; her stomach roils in disgust and self-hatred – how far she’s fallen from her old self! These days, it feels like she’s only a shell of the former Lilith Dumont, such a different person that she can’t even call herself the same name. 

“Now, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out just how things work ‘round here, but you’re a smart girl, ain’tcha, Miss Davis?” She nods once, as expected, and he continues. “Rhodes is a tight-knit community. We look out for one another, have each other’s backs. That make sense to you?” 

Not entirely sure what he’s leading up to, Lilith can only bob her head in agreement. “It does, sir.” 

Gray lets out a breath. “Miss Davis, I ain’t gonna lie to you. There was a bit of commotion up in Valentine. A shootout. A whole lot of good, innocent people got caught in the crossfire. Real nasty business.” 

It takes a second for her to remember how to properly act but she hopes her hesitation will be taken as shock. Her hand flies up to her mouth, covering a gasp. The whitening of her face is a lucky coincidence, though likely not happening for the reason he might assume – hadn’t Charles mentioned that the gang’s camped out somewhere around there? Surely they wouldn’t have gotten involved in something so public, not after Blackwater. . .

“That’s terrible,” she whispers hoarsely, eyes widening to almost a comical degree. She has never been the best liar, never been the best at faking what she doesn’t feel. Her next words come too quickly, almost stumbling in her pronunciation as they fly off her tongue. “What happened?” 

Too late she realizes that her eagerness to know the truth might come off as strange, especially for the kind of woman she’s pretending to be. Her stomach lurches when Gray looks at her strangely, an odd look glinting in his eyes, but when it disappears just as quickly as it had appeared, she chooses to write it off as a trick of the light for now and to worry about it later. 

Thankfully, Gray doesn’t mention her slip up. “Rumor is that the Pinkerton Detective Agency tried to arrest a group of outlaws. You ever heard of Dutch van der Linde, Miss Davis?” 

She nods slowly, trying to stick to the truth as much as possible. “I’ve seen his face on the bounty board, sir.” 

Not a lie. She checks those posters to the point of obsession, desperately searching for one that might have her own face pictured and dreading the inevitable day that she’ll find it. 

“You’re lucky you haven’t run into him. Dutch’s Boys ain’t a group you wanna get acquainted with personally, miss. I would spend some time lookin’ over those wanted posters and make sure you know their faces. ‘Specially since. . .well, that brings me t’why I’m here today.” 

Lilith braces herself for what happens next, for him to pull out a pair of cuffs or a rope or even the gun holstered at his side. She’s all too ready for him to recognize her association with Dutch and take her in because of it. She’s so focused on this being the only clear course of action that she nearly misses what he says next. 

“. . .got a telegram from the Sheriff down in Valentine saying that he suspects van der Linde has packed up camp and moved south, so I’m goin’ around today and askin’ folks if they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious.” 

“I. . .” she shakes her head after a beat, trying to make it seem as if she’s filing through her memory for any possible instance. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.” 

“Nothing?” The Sheriff raises an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t mean no respect, Miss Davis, but you’re pretty far on on the outskirts of town, you know? There any chance that someone could have, I don’t know, snuck in one of those storerooms of yours? Maybe they’re hidin’ out without you knowin’?” 

She doesn’t turn around and look at the door that’s right behind her, the door leading to the room where she keeps most of her not quite legal wares. “I was in there this morning, Sheriff Gray,” she says evenly. “I’m quite sure that if any outlaw was hiding out in my inventory, I would have noticed them.”

“You sure?” he presses.

She doesn’t like his instance – that worries her far more than whatever trouble Dutch has managed to land himself in this time. “I’m sure.” 

“All right, Miss Davis,” the man says after a beat, tipping his head. “I’ll get outta your hair now. Just keep in mind what I said. Here in Rhodes, we watch each other’s backs.” 

It doesn’t sound like a threat though she can’t help but take it as one considering the circumstance; as she watches him leave, she can’t stop the panic that holds her body in a vise grip. 

It’s only when she’s sure that he’s gone that she breaks.

The next breath she takes doesn’t come smoothly. Head spinning, she stumbles back until her back presses up against the wall, grasping at her throat as if that’ll help her lungs work properly. Spots dance before her eyes and it’s not long until the trembling in her knees knock her bad leg out from underneath her and she collapses to the ground in an inelegant heap. 

_No, no, no, no – this can’t be happening._

Another stuttered, short inhale. The walls of her shop close in on her, her vision tunneling and mind spiraling with the worst case scenario. She can’t – she can’t go back, she _won’t,_ her poster says wanted dead or alive and she won’t go back so that means she’ll have to – 

If running wouldn’t look so suspicious, she would be halfway to Saint Denis right now. She’s always been good at leaving, at sneaking away in the shadows so silently that no one notices her departure until she’s long gone. But she doesn’t have to funds nor the means to pick up shop and leave so soon after moving from Strawberry. Not to mention that the law has nothing against Florence Davis and to risk suspicion should she flee after speaking to the Sheriff. . .

She’s well and truly stuck. 

For the first time in months, she presses her palms to her eyes so tightly she sees stars and cries.

* * *

Lilith’s on edge. 

Ever since the Sheriff had come warning of Dutch and his gang, she’s been paranoid to the point of concern, flighty and flinching at any sudden or loud noise that normally wouldn’t have her batting an eye.

It’s difficult to even muster up the courage to leave the relative safety of her home and store other than when necessary. She hasn’t been up to the stables since Gray’s visit and though she knows Rosebud is well-taken care of by the stablehands, she misses her horse dearly. With her history she’s used to living in relative anxiety, but this? This is a type of fear she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

There is a very small number of people in Rhodes interested in her exotic curiosities; besides the occasional shady individual looking to pawn something most likely stolen or the few trusted criminals who know about her side business, she doesn’t get many customers at all. So when the door at the entrance creaks open for the first time that day, she’s immediately tensing up, preparing to run as best she can, just in case the Sheriff’s decided to come back and arrest her for her involvement with Dutch. 

She can’t decide whether she would prefer him or the person who walks through the door. 

Dutch van der Linde. 

Close behind him is Hosea, with Arthur taking the rear and rounding up the group. As soon as she sees the three of them, she’s scrambling around the counter, wide-eyed and panicked, trying to push them out the door before they even cross the threshold. Though she’s overjoyed to see them alive and well after all these months, she’s more concerned with both their and her safety. Everyone is on high alert – surely someone has seen them and connected their faces to those on the wanted posters. For all they know, the Sheriff could be on his way over now, guns out and ready to arrest all four of them, and then – then – 

She stumbles slightly, rolling her ankle in her haste. Dutch reaches out to steady her with a hand, brows furrowed in confusion and eyes lit with worry. “My dear girl, what – ” 

“You need to leave,” she interrupts, shrugging off his grip frantically. Dutch holds his hands up, looking at her like an injured animal that needs to be soothed. “Get out of Rhodes before you’re caught. The Sheriff – ” 

Her mouth audibly snaps shut when she finally sees the gold deputy badge shining on Dutch and Arthur’s chests. She pauses, frowns, then asks incredulously, “How the hell did you manage to pull that off?” 

“Dutch managed to charm his way right into the employment of the law. And Arthur here,” Hosea chuckles, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, “well, he doesn’t quite have the brains for that kind of work but he certainly is good at knocking people’s heads in!” 

Arthur’s cheeks redden, his eyes rolling good-naturedly at Hosea’s antics. “Aw, shut up, old man.” 

“Shit,” Lilith says, taking a few steps back until she hits the counter. Pushing back her hair with one hand and gripping the rim in the other, she leans back against it. “Shit. Sheriff Gray – he came by here a few days ago asking about you. The whole town’s on lookout after what happened in Valentine.”

At her words, Arthur’s eyes slide to Dutch, narrowing slightly before meeting Lilith’s gaze. It’s so brief that she would have missed it had she not been looking at him

“There’s no need to worry about us, Miss Dumont,” Dutch says with an easy smile on his face, holding his hands out wide. “Once they realize we were under their noses the entire time, we’ll be long gone. Trust me.” 

Hosea, as usual, seems to see what Dutch misses. He frowns, taking a step towards her and reaching out a comforting arm, touching her shoulder gently. “Are you all right, my dear?” 

Had Arthur not been present, she likely would have told the truth – Dutch and Hosea would understand why she’s so shaken when she tells them what happened a few days ago. Instead, she nods, stepping away from the counter and putting some distance between herself and her visitors. “I’m fine, just tired. And I wasn’t expecting you to come by today.” 

“We needed a change of pace from Valentine,” Dutch says, waving a hand. “Some of the boys and I got into a fight with those damn Pinkertons and nearly shot up the whole town. Nasty business.” 

Hosea watches her carefully but lets her misdirection pass. “We’ve set up camp in Clemons Cove, not too far away from that old Civil War battlefield.” 

She nods. Though she doesn’t recognize the name, she’s combed through most of the surrounding land looking for valuable items to add to her collection. “I know the area.” 

“So don’t be gettin’ too sick of us, now,” Arthur drawls. “We gonna be real close for the next few weeks.” 

Lilith scowls at his comment but her emotions run much deeper than that. If the Sheriff hadn’t come to her asking about Dutch and his men, she would have been pleased at the prospect of them being so close. She swallows down a wave of cold dread, keeping her worries to herself. Dutch had told her to trust him so she will; she has to believe that Dutch’ll keep everyone safe and that the Sheriff’s threats pose little danger. 

(Even still, a tendril of doubt curls low in her stomach. Dutch’s blasé attitude is concerning. Should they underestimate Sheriff Gray. . .no, that’s not a path she wants to go down.)

Ignoring Arthur’s quip, she turns to Dutch and Hosea. “You need supplies? I don’t have much right now, I’m afraid.” 

“Whatever you can spare will be more than enough,” Dutch tells her.

“To drop this off, too,” Hosea adds, pulling out another jar of numbing salve. He wags it at her accusingly, “Now that we’re in the neighborhood, I’ll know if you’re using it or not.” 

When she remembers to use it, Hosea’s medicine helps tremendously; if she was to rub it on every morning as a preventative measure, her pain might even be manageable most days. But with her mind often focused on other matters, her own physical wellbeing is usually pushed to the back of her priorities. She’s dealt with her bad ankle for enough years that she can usually ignore the discomfort. 

Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she accepts the jar with a grateful smile, placing it down on the counter for later. “Thanks, Hosea. I’ll grab you some supplies.” 

“Say, Miss Dumont,” Dutch starts, leaning forward slightly. She hums in response to let him know she’s listening despite having stepped into the backroom. “Would you happen to know anything about the two rival families in town?” 

“The Grays and the Braithwaites?”

“Indeed.”

Pulling out two stacks of dynamite and an old but extremely sharp hatchet and placing them on the counter, she turns back to the storage room to grab her last container of health tonics. To the three men, she says, “I don’t know much,” she replies regretfully. “They’re awfully rich. I remember hearing something about gold but I don’t think that’s anything but a rumor.” 

“Civil War gold, dear girl,” Hosea replies, leaning in excitedly. There’s a gleam in his eye betraying his eagerness about the possibility of immeasurable wealth. “Dates back about a century, or so they say.” 

Arthur scoffs. “Still don’t think that’s anythin’ but a rumor. We should be focusin’ more on gettin’ back on our feet before we go chasin’ stories.” 

“Have faith, Arthur!” Dutch exclaims. “Blackwater was a minor setback, nothing more. We _will_ get back up and if there’s gold to be found, we _will_ find it.” 

Arthur grumbles a bit more at that but says nothing, evidently taking Dutch’s word as law despite his uncertainty. 

Lilith watches the conversation silently. Though she’s heard stories from the two older men about Arthur and other gang members, she’s never known more than word of mouth. It’s not her place to step into what is clearly outlaw business – and even if it were, she wouldn’t want to. 

Now that the conversation has lulled, she takes the time to hand over her stock. “Like I said,” she tells them apologetically, “it’s not much. Haven’t been out scavenging in a few days.” 

Dutch and Hosea each take a bundle of dynamite and Arthur grabs the hatchet, whistling lowly as he hefts it up and examines it before hooking it to an empty space in his belt. Then, he grabs the box of tonics and hefts it up. “Thank you, miss.” 

(She swears he winks at her.)

“We should get going,” Hosea announces. 

Secretly, Lilith agrees, though she doesn’t voice this sentiment out loud. As much as she wants to spend more time with them, the longer they linger the higher the chance of them getting caught – of _her_ getting caught.

(Maybe she’s selfish, but she’s learned the hard way to protect her own neck and put herself first.)

Arthur tips his head in goodbye. “Miss Dumont.”

“Mr. Morgan.”

After Arthur leaves, Hosea and Dutch remain. She turns to them, wringing her hands slightly. She feels uncharacteristically vulnerable in the presence of the two men who saved her. “Thanks for coming by. After what happened in Blackwater, well. . .” 

“If you need anything, Miss Dumont, all you need to do is ask,” Dutch replies grandly, but he's got enough on his plate without the addition of her worries. 

"If Sheriff Gray says anything about suspecting me," she starts tentatively, "get him off my trail?"

Dutch scoffs as if this is obvious. "Naturally." 

Hosea adds with a nod, “The offer to join us still stands.” 

In the years she’s known them, this is the closest she’s been to giving in and accepting. Though the safety that comes alongside running in a large gang tempts her, there’s too much of a risk. Further still, she has nothing to offer the group, not with her bad ankle and limited abilities. At best, she would be a liability, a burden, someone to cut loose.

“That life isn’t for me anymore,” she says softly and shakes her head, not entirely sure if she even believes the words she’s saying. “I’m just fine where I am.” 

“Very well,” Dutch says. “We _will_ be back – I promise you that.”

As she watches them leave, a feeling of finality settles deep in her bones. No matter how far she’s tried to run, it doesn’t look like her past will be leaving her alone anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ot3 goodness in the next chapter! i wanted to set up the gang's presence in Rhodes before we really start heading in that direction


	5. chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides in two months late with starbucks*
> 
> aaaa i am TERRIBLY sorry about the wait! this term of college has been so stressful and overwhelming. I've done so much academic writing that even when i had free time, i was too drained to write the fun stuff. good news, though – I'm done in a week and a half and while i don't want to promise anything i will definitely be less busy :)
> 
> chapter pov(s): arthur, lilith

“Hey, Charles.” 

The other man looks up as Arthur approaches, laying down the arrow he’d been carving on his knee. A soft smile curls at the corner of his mouth, the genuine one that Charles seems to reserve solely for him; Arthur’s heart flips in his chest at the sight, tight with affection. “Arthur. It’s good to see you.” 

“Heh.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck while the tips of his ears redden. “If ya ain’t too busy, I was wonderin’ if you wanted t’take a ride with me. Maybe get outta camp for a day or two.” 

Charles’s smile widens, looking genuinely excited at the prospect. “I would like that. Supplies are getting low again too – I’ve been meaning to go out hunting.” 

“All right, well – that’s good.” He’d stopped being a teenager decades ago and yet every interaction with the other man makes him feel like he’s never done this before, standing awkwardly with sweaty hands and hot cheeks. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.” 

Charles stands, slipping the half-finished arrow into his satchel. “I’m good now.” 

“You sure? Don’t wanna rush ya or anythin’. It ain’t like I got anywhere to be.” 

He shrugs, dusting off his pants and moving to stand by Arthur. “I can always finish it later. Besides, I would much rather spend time with you than sit here alone.” 

Arthur huffs out an embarrassed breath, scratching at his chin, trying and failing not to look pleased with that response. He’s still getting used to how Charles so openly wants to be around him these days – not that he’s complaining. As nice as it is, it’s just. . .new, unfamiliar. It certainly hadn’t been this way with Mary. 

Amusement dances in Charles’s eyes at Arthur’s reaction, his smile softening. He tugs on Arthur’s hand gently, tugging him in the direction where the horses are grazing. “Come on, Arthur.” 

And, like a lovestruck fool, he follows gladly. 

-

When a few more days have gone by after Dutch and Hosea’s visit without anything happening, she finally feels brave enough to venture out of her home for an afternoon. Cabin fever gets to Lilith eventually. It’s an itch that won’t leave, one that has her leaping at the chance to get out of her home. While he’s still on edge, still paranoid and nervous, it’s been about a week and a half since she’d last been up to the stables. Especially after being cooped up for so long, she misses both her horse and the freedom riding gives her. 

It’s slow going despite not needing her crutch today. She walks carefully and tries to blend into the crowd as much as she can, doing her best not to catch any unwanted attention. Though her hair’s arranged just so to hide the scar on her jaw and she avoids eye contact with the people she passes, Lilith keeps her composure; she wants to hunch her shoulders and curl in on herself, wants to make herself appear smaller, but her pride refuses to let her do so. The past few weeks have beaten her down almost beyond repair but she’s not entirely broken. 

(Not yet.)

When she’s out of the confines of the town, Rhodes firmly behind her, she pauses on the road. Closes her eyes, inhales deeply, tilts her face up to the sun like a plant gone without light for too long. Other than a few clouds looming on the horizon, it’s a clear day. She doesn’t linger but takes the time to remind herself that she is alive, her heart beating in time with her internal monologue: _I am here, I am here._

A few minutes later, once she sets off again, she hears the sound of hooves behind her. Stepping off to the side of the road, she turns her head to watch them pass. . .only to recognize both figures astride their horses. 

“Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Arthur drawls, pulling his horse to a stop. Charles, right behind him, does the same. Both men peer down at her; craning her neck, she shades her eyes from the sun with a hand. “Been runnin’ into you a lot these days, Miss Dumont.” 

“Since y’all have settled down in Clemons Point, I imagine it’ll keep happening,” she replies. She has to wonder how many gang members she’s run into already without noticing; even with all the stories she’s heard, she only knows four faces.

There’s a pause that comes with a tense, awkward silence. Despite knowing Hosea and Dutch quite well, she’s still unfamiliar with these two men. She’s never been good at small talk either, so she awkwardly clears her throat and tries to leave the conversation. “Well, I’ll just be on my way.” 

Charles says, “Where are you headed?” 

Lilith shifts her weight to her good leg, surreptitiously stretching out her ankle. It can’t hurt to be truthful – she has no reason to lie. “Up to the stables, then Emerald Ranch.” 

Arthur whistles lowly. “Bit of a walk, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” And the longer they keep her here with idle conversation, the longer it’ll take her to get up there. 

Charles and Arthur share a look. “We’re headed that way as well,” Charles replies slowly, and his tone of voice tells her all she needs to know about what’s coming out of his mouth next, “and certainly wouldn’t mind giving you a ride up there.” 

“Would you offer me a ride if I didn’t have a limp?” she asks sharply, perhaps more harshly than she’d intended. Still, her tone is laced with irritation. She’s lived with a fucked ankle long enough to know that most people don’t come from a place of malice with these kinds of questions but they still irritate her to no end. She’s so used to living on her own and relying on no one but herself that the thought of depending on someone else has bile rising in her throat. 

Her words hang heavy in the air for a few moments, and while she hadn’t intended to speak so harshly, she doesn’t regret it. She hates being reminded of her injury and her physical limitations, hates remembering how it happened, hates the fact that others see her as _vulnerable_ despite her best efforts to work around it.

Arthur rubs at his jaw. “Mhm, probably. Charles here is a bleedin’ heart,” he jerks his thumb at the other man, “an’ he probably would’ve asked even if you were a stranger.” 

Charles rolls his eyes but there’s a fondness in his gaze when he looks at Arthur, faint but there nonetheless. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

After a beat, she stresses once again to get her point across, “I don’t _need_ your help.” 

“Don’t we know it,” Arthur huffs. 

Agreeing would be a sign of weakness and yet her acceptance is on the tip of her tongue. These two are honorable men – it’s a ride up to the stables, nothing else. And if she’s being honest, it would save her a lot of discomfort later on in the day. . .

“All right. Fine.” 

Before she can overthink it, she nods stiffly, looking at a spot just over Charles’s shoulder instead of directly meeting his gaze. She ignores his look of surprise and disbelief, her cheeks heating uncomfortably at the attention. It’s increasingly obvious that they hadn’t expected this answer (especially not with the way she’d dug her heels in earlier), but she’s always liked keeping men on their toes. 

(And at the height of her confidence, that had been easy.)

Charles dismounts with an ease that makes her immediately jealous; he grabs his horse’s reins and leads the mare over to her. “This is Taima.” 

At the sound of her name, Taima wickers softly. Lilith reaches up slowly and gently pets the velvet skin of Taima’s nose, a hint of a smile on her face when the mare presses further into her palm. 

“She likes you,” Charles observes softly. She pauses in her ministrations and turns her head at his words but is taken aback by the warm look on his face; his eyes have softened, a half-smile tugging up at his lips, and she – 

Arthur’s horse paws at the ground impatiently, its rider shifting in the saddle impatiently. “You two just gonna stand there and look at each other or can we get goin’?” 

Right. The moment of truth. Determinedly, Lilith fixes her gaze on the stirrup, possible scenarios running through her head. If she mounts Taima from the left side, she could leverage her good foot with enough momentum to get up without assistance. And if she holds her upper body up with the saddle horn as she does it, then her bad ankle won’t have to bear her weight while she does it. 

“. . .you up?” 

She blinks at the sound of Charles’s voice – she hadn’t even heard him speak. “What?” 

“Can I pick you up?” he repeats. At her look of confusion, he adds with a slight frown, “I assumed it would be easier if you rode behind me, but – ” 

It would no doubt be easier to accept his assistance but she’s so far out of her comfort zone by even allowing him to give her a ride up to the stables. As difficult as it is for her to get up on a horse on her own, she’s perfectly capable – and her pride has taken a blow today already. 

She’s always been a stubborn, willful creature; she’s not very religious but her mama sure had been – she hadn’t been named after a demon queen without a good reason. 

“I’ve got it,” she interrupts him, stepping away from Charles before he can continue. As she brushes past him to get to Taima’s left side, she shivers at the contact between them, the warmth as skin touches skin. It’s small moments like these that remind her just how contact-starved she is – the longing is almost enough for her to take back her earlier words just to feel his hands around her waist as he lifts her up.

Almost, but not enough. 

Determinedly, she places her foot in the stirrup and grips the saddle horn hard enough that her knuckles whiten from strain, and before she can reconsider her decision, uses that leverage to hoist herself up onto the horse. 

It’s through sheer force of will that she doesn’t topple right back onto the ground. For a moment, she hangs unbalanced, her body uncertain whether she’ll get up properly or if her momentum will pull her back down. But her leg makes it over despite this, her face red from effort and overall appearance disheveled. Charles watches her with a look of surprise and she basks in it for a second before sliding back and seating herself on Taima’s rump.

“Didn’t think you were gonna make it,” Arthur comments idly, pulling his horse up beside Taima as Charles mounts with an ease that makes her jealous. 

“Placing bets, were you?” she snarks back, her heart still thundering with adrenaline from almost landing flat on her ass. 

“Heh,” Arthur chuckles. “Glad I didn’t – I probably woulda lost that money. But from what I’ve seen from you, Miss Dumont, I don’t rightly know why I’m even surprised.” 

She clicks her tongue, enjoying the easy banter between them despite herself. It’s a welcome respite from the discomfort she’s feeling at being so close to a man. “It’s not polite to talk about a lady that way, Mr. Morgan.”

“With all due respect, miss, you ain’t no – ”

“You two bicker like children,” Charles interrupts, his words rumbling in his chest. There’s something in his voice she can’t detect, something like fondness. For her? Arthur? She makes a note to come back to it later, filing it away in her mind for now.

He nudges Taima into an easy walk, likely for her benefit; nevertheless, she jolts forward when he does, involuntarily reaching forward to hesitantly wrap her arms around Charles’s waist. She’s careful not to touch more than she has to, gripping his shirt tentatively rather than getting a firm hold. 

The trio rides in silence for about a mile; it’s a peaceful type of quiet, the one that comes with being comfortable in each other’s company despite barely knowing each other. Clouds form overhead, providing a respite from the harsh midday sun. Through the sounds of the horses’s hooves and bird song, she can just make out the tune that Arthur’s humming. For some reason, this small detail endears him further to her; when she catches herself smiling absently in response she sets her face and turns away. 

These two men are only giving her a ride. She owes them nothing – not kindness, not smiles, not friendliness. It would do her good to remember that, especially as she spends more time with them.

Taima swerves suddenly, the bitten-off curse slipping from Charles’s lips placing Lilith immediately on alert. Reacting quickly, she molds herself to Charles’s back and wraps her arms tightly around his midsection, all thoughts of discomfort flying out of her head as she struggles to remain upright. 

“Raiders in the trees!” Arthur hollers but before she can even process his words, a bullet whizzes narrowly past her head. He spurs his horse into a gallop, Charles nudging Taima to the same pace seconds after. 

She clings tightly to Charles, squeezing her thighs around Taima; she can feel the tension radiating off of the man sitting in front of her. With every pounding step the mare takes her pistol thuds against her hip in a heavy rhythm, making her acutely aware of its presence. 

But having her weapon within reach doesn’t make her feel safe. Instead, it’s a painful reminder that she hasn’t fired a single shot or done anything more than taking the safety off in years. And yet it’s second nature when she pulls the gun out of its holster and wraps her hand around the handle without hesitation. It’s almost as if nothing has changed. 

Who she is now is a shell of her former self – it scares her how easily she slips back into the woman she used to be, hands steady as she clings to Charles and fires blindly into the trees. The adrenaline coursing through her veins is addictive – despite the danger, this is the most alive she’s felt in weeks. 

Had this life not come with significant consequences, she never would have left. 

“We need to find cover!” Charles shouts. “We’re too exposed out here in the open.” 

“Think I know a place we can lay low for a while,” Arthur responds, digging his heels in his horse’s flank. “Get!” 

As Charles turns Taima to follow Arthur, Lilith twists and fires behind them, covering their escape. She has no way of knowing if she’s actually hitting anyone hiding in the foliage behind them but any stragglers that try to follow them get shot down.

Amidst the gunfire, she doesn’t hear the thunder rumbling in the distance before the sky opens up above them. It doesn’t come down slow, either – she’s drenched almost immediately, cold rain pelting against her skin until she’s more wet than dry. 

She curses under her breath as the downpour continues, making it difficult for her to stay seated while firing. Blindly, Charles reaches a hand behind him as he rides and grabs onto bicep where it’s wrapped around him. To protect her face from the pelleting rain, she tucks her cheek against Charles’s warm back, closes her eyes, and hangs on as if her life depends on it.

Eventually, Taima slows to a trot, then a walk. Lilith lifts her head and blinks, wiping the water off of her forehead but keeping one arm on Charles’s waist. They’re in the abandoned plague town near the marshes – Pleasance, she thinks the name is. She’s heard rumors about this place but has never ventured out; had the situation been different, she would be eager to start scavenging around in the empty houses.

Now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, she’s made aware of the chill forming in her bones. Despite the humidity of the air, the rain comes down cold. She clenches her jaw tightly, physically forcing down the shivers that begin to plague her. It’s a problem that will have to be taken care of soon, but not until they make sure that they haven’t been followed. 

Arthur’s head moves on a swivel, scanning the forest around them. Other than the sound of rain, it’s quiet. After a beat, he says, “I think we lost ‘em.” 

“We should lay low, just in case,” Charles replies. 

Arthur grunts in agreement, jerking his chin forward. His hat doesn’t do much to stop the rain from getting on his face, the brim starting to sag with the weight. “Big building over there should do the trick.” 

It’s not the first time that Lilith marvels at the easy communication between the two, the implicit trust that they have for each other. She hasn’t felt that camaraderie with another human being in a long time and that oh so familiar yearning for connection reverberates deep in her chest. It makes her feel like an outsider, and for that reason she stays quiet. 

Charles slides off Taima swiftly; once she’s on the ground, she stares down at him warily. He raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing over his features and a clear question in his eyes. _You want help getting down?_

No, she doesn’t _want_ help, even if she needs it. Carefully, she adjusts herself so both legs hang off the same side and pushes herself off the mare. 

As soon as she hits the ground, her bad ankle gives out almost immediately; had it not been for Charles’s quick reflexes, she’d be on her ass, completely covered in mud. One arm goes to her shoulder, the other around her waist. She leans almost all of her weight on him, her body throbbing.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipping low. “You all right?” 

She blinks up at him, water sluicing down her face. For a second, she lets herself be held, lips parting slightly. Charles seems just as entranced as she is, eyes darkening, broad hand tightening against her waist – 

“Charles, you got the horses?” 

Arthur’s voice breaks through their stupor; as if burned, the two of them break apart. She stumbles slightly as she takes a step back but bats Charles’s hand away when he reaches out to steady her. Her heart races in her chest, threatening to break through her ribs. 

That. . .

Lilith watches as Charles leads the horses away, barely feeling the cold rain that pelts against her skin. When Arthur appears in her line of sight, she shakes her head and focuses on him. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his wet hair, heading towards the big house and motioning for her to follow. 

“C’mon,” he says gruffly. “I checked out the house – it’s just the three of us ‘round here.” Thunder rumbles in the distance and he scowls. “Let’s get outta this storm.” 

She finds her voice again, falling back into an easy rhythm as they walk up to the building. “Afraid of a little rain, Mr. Morgan?” 

“If you wanna stay out here, be my guest,” he grumbles, holding the door open for her. “Otherwise – after you, darlin’.”

There’s no harm in waiting out the rain, right? She can head up to the stables once it’s over – southern storms come and go as quickly as they arrive. And even though it’s a selfish want, she wouldn’t mind spending time in the company of two people she’s pretty sure aren’t out to get her. 

She quirks a brow but walks into the house. It’s warmer inside but not by much; she wraps her arms around herself and prays that her clothes dry before she catches a chill. She shoves her hands underneath her armpits, desperately seeking a bit of warmth _“Now_ you want to be a gentleman?” 

Arthur snorts, shaking his head and following behind her. “You’re somethin’ else, Miss Dumont.” 

“Lilith,” she blurts out before she can regret it. It feels right and she can’t quite place the reason. 

“All right, Lilith,” he says, her name sliding off his tongue smoothly. She likes the sound of it on his lips. “Call me Arthur.” 

“Arthur, then.” 

“I reckon we should get a fire goin’,” he continues, rubbing his hands together then blowing warm air into his cupped palms. “Then we gotta get outta these clothes ‘fore we freeze t’death.” 

That. . .hadn’t occurred to her. As Arthur walks away, she stares at his retreating back, mouth gaping slightly. It’s logical, probably the best option, but. . .

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder how many beds the abandoned house has... ;))


End file.
